'The Professor' by Charlotte Bronte

The Professor (1857) is English writer Charlotte Brontë's first novel. Rejected by several publishing houses, Brontë shelved the novel in order to write her masterpiece Jane Eyre (1847). After her death, The Professor was edited by Brontë's widower, Arthur Bell Nichols, who saw that the novel was published posthumously. Based on Brontë's experience as a student and teacher in Brussels--which similarly inspired her novel Villette--The Professor is an underappreciated early work from one of English literature's most important writers.

MY THOUGHTS: 

This was the first book Charlotte Bronte ever wrote, although it was published posthumously, when her other masterpieces were already well known. Some critics think it might never have been regarded as fit to publish at all, except that she had made such a name for herself. I see their point, because although her writing is beautiful as ever, the plot and characterisation lack the great heart of Jane Eyre and Villette. The main character, William Crimsworth is a supercilious upstart if ever there was one, and my biggest problem with this book is that Charlotte intended him to be a conscientious, exemplary young hero who deserves our total love and support.

An orphan from babyhood, William shrugs off help from his snooty uncles on his mother's side of the family, instead seeking employment with his brother Edward, who is ten years his senior. At the age of 30, Edward is a wealthy manufacturer who identifies totally with their father's self-made, working class background and ethic. He grudgingly offers William a job as his clerk, all the while despising him because their aristocratic relatives had financed William's education through Eton, and also just because William gets on his nerves. Edward treats William with such atrocious unfairness that William eventually has a gutful and decides that heading across the channel to try his luck in Brussels would surely be no worse than working for his brother. So far, there's nothing not to love, right?

Charlotte Bronte has set our boy up in the perfect lone-underdog position to retain our sympathy all through, but then she unravels her good work with his attitude. Perhaps her big mistake is to write from William's first person perspective, because whenever he reveals his candid impressions, I groan out loud. He gains a teaching position in a boys' school (where they were all called 'professors') and also acquires a few teaching slots at the girls' school next door. From then on we get William's critique of staff and students alike, and nobody stands up to his scrutiny, sometimes for the nitpickiest of reasons. 

He's racist, xenophobic, chauvinistic and ageist, dishing out harsh judgment on people's intelligence and physical features. And his outrageous reflections just keep coming. He assesses the figures of his female pupils as if they're cows at a market. Then this 21-year-old newcomer labels others as 'vulgar', 'inferior-looking', 'commonplace' and 'insignificant.' He makes snap negative judgments based on the shape of a girl's head or the cleanliness of her neck. And he is derogatory about their national Catholic faith, often with an eye-rolling, 'well, what would you expect?' sort of attitude. Or else, he struts about giving himself mental pats on the back because Mademoiselle Zoraide Reuter, the director of the girls' school, has found the weak spot of every other member of staff, but can get nothing on him! 

I could never excuse his brother for his horrible treatment of William, but it gets to the point where I almost understand why Edward was so irritated with William's mannerisms, accent and way of carrying himself. For if William comes across as a smug little prat to me, it stands to reason that his gruff, no-frills brother probably got the same vibe. And I'm sure that's a conclusion Charlotte Bronte never intended readers to make.  

There are a couple of aspects of the book I didn't mind. My favourite character is Yorke Hunsden, the sarcastic Yorkshire neighbour who is always paying William out, but proves himself to be a genuine friend. Hunsden criticises William to his face, yet looks out for his best interests in many very effective ways behind his back. That's refreshing, when so many so-called friends get it the other way around. 

The romance element is sort of sweet. William falls for a young lady named Frances Henri who joins his English class, hoping to get a bit more experience with the language, although she's actually a fellow teacher, who instructs the girls in lace mending. I do like the way Frances comes to appreciate the subtle compliment behind William's demanding standards for her bookwork to the extent that he becomes the subject of some of her best pieces.  

But plotwise - meh. William finds Mademoiselle Reuter attractive, then overhears her flirting with Monsieur Pelet, with whom she appears to have some understanding. It's hardly even two-timing, since Mademoiselle Reuter had never committed herself to William in any way. But he turns on his chilliest, most disdainful behaviour until she gets the message, then he falls for somebody else who agrees with him that he's absolutely perfect in every way. If William wasn't obnoxious he'd be boring, for who cares to read about a guy in his early twenties whose innate frugality, sound judgment and work ethic never once let him down? I'd be interested to know if any modern readers do, in fact, love this guy. Are there truly any William Crimsworth fans out there? Speak up, because I'd be interested to know.  

Overall, these Crimsworth boys are not all that dissimilar really. One is meant to be always on his high horse but the other always looks down his nose too. The two stars are for Charlotte Bronte's beautiful writing style. It's refreshing in a way, to see that even undoubted geniuses have the occasional misses.  

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The Placebo Effect in Fiction

I love a good story that highlights the power of the placebo effect. Here is an internet definition of what takes place. 'The placebo effect occurs when a person's physical or mental health appears to improve after taking a dummy treatment.' In other words, our own brilliant brains are effective enough to implement change for the better when we think a positive development has occurred, even if we are totally mistaken. 

Here's a personal anecdote that proved it true to me beyond a doubt. At the MOD Museum in Adelaide, there was once an apparent pain threshold test that sent zaps of electricity through a handle to the palms of our hands. I'm no fan of pain, but challenged by my kids, I thought I'd give it a try. 'Ouch!' The first surge made me yell out and shake my tingling hand.

Then the same handle administered a soothing massage, complete with comforting, smiley emojis on the screen. The accompanying text informed us this was a special numbing effect to reduce the impact of the next zap. That promise was all that convinced me to keep holding on, and sure enough, the next electric shock was milder and easier to take in my stride. I indicated that in my feedback. And finally, more text scrolled down to tell us the supposed numbing effect was all a hoax, and the second electric shock was the exact same magnitude as the first. I, along with many other respondents experienced what they were really testing; the placebo effect. 

Well, that cemented my conviction that we should approach this phenomenon with a lot of respect. Whenever I hear stories of spontaneous healing or confidence building after some placebo effect, I'm not a bit surprised. The fascinating placebo effect has made its way into several stories, old and beloved alike. Since fiction is a mirror of the strange truth of reality, the following incidents are deeply encouraging as well as hugely entertaining. 

Here are a few I love.

1) Mister Meddle

I appreciate how Enid Blyton indirectly teaches her very youngest fans about the placebo effect. Mister Meddle is staying overnight at a guesthouse with his good friend. (His name escapes me, but it could well have been Jinks.) Meddle thinks the bedroom is horribly stuffy but Jinks feels chilly and argues against opening a window. The pair of them tussle in the darkness and accidentally smash a pane of glass. Meddle is gleeful that the sore point has been resolved in his favour. Jinks can't un-break that window, so Meddle jumps back into bed enjoying refreshing blasts of cool air. It takes the early morning light to reveal what really happened. The window is still closed, but the glass front of a bookcase is splintered. And the grinning Jinks realised that all along. (Next they'll have to argue about who pays the repair bill.)

2) Bless Me, Father series by Neil Boyd

I've barely given these great books a thought since I read them in my teens. Neil Boyd is a young Catholic curate who assists the senior Father Duddleswell. In one incident, they help cure a man who believes he's dying from a witch doctor's curse, and lies languishing in hospital. (The holy duo believe this guy is suffering from the negative counterpart of the placebo effect, which happens to be the nocebo effect. He will indeed die without intervention.) The patient already knows Father Duddleswell, so they dress young Father Neil up as vastly superior spiritual guru than the paltry witch doctor who inflicted the curse. He chants a string of supposed incantations to reverse the curse, and after plenty of solid improvisation, the stunt works. The patient gets out of bed believing himself to be fully cured, and resumes his former active lifestyle.

3) Harry Potter series

One of my favourite incidents takes place in The Half-Blood Prince. Ron Weasley has joined the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Everyone knows he occasionally shares his siblings' talent for the game, but suffers from crippling nerves and often crumples mid-match. Until the day he believes his best friend, Harry, added a few drops of felix felicis, or liquid luck, to his morning pumpkin juice. Ron scorches the court, leaves his Slytherin opponents gasping, and almost single-handedly wins a crucial match for his team. Only then does Harry admit he used no felix felicis at all. Ron's blistering performance was based solely on a wink and a flash of the bottle. 

4) The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

L. Frank Baum gives us the all-time perfect incident here. The Scarecrow, Tin Man and Lion long for brains, a kind heart and courage respectively. The little wizard is a complete fake, but he's clever and understands the power of suggestion. All it takes is a hastily scribbled Diploma, a testimonial of great altruism and a medal of bravery to satisfy the cravings of our awesome trio. These physical objects give the dormant traits permission to blossom. In fact, each member of the trio has been using these attributes all along, but only now do they give themselves permission to really own them. (I've reviewed it here.)

 

If you can think of any more, please let us know in the comments. Several years ago, I wrote this review of a fascinating book called You are the Placebo. It seems that knowing the placebo effect may come into play doesn't stop it working, and may even assist it, if that's what we expect to happen. Perhaps the belief that settling down with a good book, hot drink and purring cat is an excellent antidote to a stressful day may well be a placebo effect, but it's one I'm happy to keep buying into. 

Have you any examples of your own?  

'A Gentleman in Moscow' by Amor Towles

A Gentleman in Moscow immerses us in another elegantly drawn era with the story of Count Alexander Rostov. When, in 1922, he is deemed an unrepentant aristocrat by a Bolshevik tribunal, the count is sentenced to house arrest in the Metropol, a grand hotel across the street from the Kremlin. Rostov, an indomitable man of erudition and wit, has never worked a day in his life, and must now live in an attic room while some of the most tumultuous decades in Russian history are unfolding outside the hotel’s doors. Unexpectedly, his reduced circumstances provide him a doorway into a much larger world of emotional discovery.

Brimming with humour, a glittering cast of characters, and one beautifully rendered scene after another, this singular novel casts a spell as it relates the count’s endeavour to gain a deeper understanding of what it means to be a man of purpose.

MY THOUGHTS: 

One person whose horror about the sudden visitation of Covid 19 on the world may have been mixed with a smidgen of timeliness is Amor Towles. I was late on board to read his excellent novel, and surprised to see the publication date as far back as 2016. It's about a man consigned to house arrest for the remainder of his natural life, who immediately sets about tweaking his attitude to grin and bear the loss of freedom. If that's not an ideal story to ponder in time for general global lockdown, I don't know what is.

In 1922, 32-year-old Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov is arrested by the Bolshevik regime for the crime of being born an aristocrat. They would have executed him outright, but he escapes with his life because a poem attributed to him expresses sympathy to the populace. Even so, the Count is warned that if he so much as pokes his nose out of the Grand Metropol Hotel in Moscow, where he currently lives, he'll be shot. A posh hotel becomes a prison in the blink of an eye.

Alexander has no choice but to make the best of the harsh verdict, even when he's evicted from his luxury apartment and assigned a poky room high in the attic. He starts by deciding this might be the ideal chance to read all the volumes from his father's extensive library, which he's been putting off because he hasn't had time. For the young man is already wise enough to realise that if you don't master your own circumstances, they'll master you. 

Anything that might possibly help him eke out the days is woven into his new outlook. He always aims to transform mere coping skills to genuine joy and contentment. He studies and appreciates the mastery of the artisans, chefs, waiters and other professionals in his vicinity more than ever before. And his courteousness to pigeons and cats naturally extends to children. Nine-year-old Nina, the daughter of a foreign ambassador, considers the Count a great friend, and he learns to cherish her friendship in return. For Alexander, the next three decades bring proof that unexpected surprises may still occur in confinement, and that sometimes the most humble appearing people or events may prove to be the most meaningful.

The Christmas chapter at the end of Part One is now among my favourite festive reads. Count Rostov gives young Nina a present from his own family belongings, helps a young man and his girlfriend through the perils of wine and food pairing, then treats one of his other best friends to a bowl of quality vanilla ice-cream which he curiously allows to melt first. The recipient turns out to be none other than the one-eyed cat. It's awesome enough to read each December, packed with excellent, implicit lessons. For example, it's more blessed to give than receive. A small gesture on your behalf may have disproportionately great results. And you never know when an apparently frivolous talent may be just what's required in any given moment. Now I even want to sample the amazing Latvian stew that gets featured here. 

The further we read, the more the title gains greater significance. For only a true gentleman could probably go the distance, and that quality penetrates way deeper than the veneer of compliance and blameless behaviour. Great character has everything to do with generosity, never missing a humorous beat, and recognising all that's truly good. Alexander is a legend. He's able to take on wise snippets he reads in books for his own personal formation. Indeed, the fact that he doesn't crack at the seams is owing to many of his favourite fictional characters. He's unflappable, penetrating and discerning. He never fobs off even the most mundane question. Any conversation he takes part in is well worth dropping in on. And he knows how to draw on memories to lighten not only his own heavy moments, but those of others, including us readers. 

I bought Amor Towles next book, The Lincoln Highway, sight unseen, because based on this novel, I have great faith in the uplifting quality of anything he may write. 

Here's one of Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov's well earned lessons to finish off with.

'When all was said and done, the endeavors that most modern men saw as urgent (such as appointments with bankers and catching of trains) probably could have waited while those they deemed highly frivolous (such as cups of tea and friendly chats) had deserved their immediate attention.'

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Hey, Slow Down for Setting

Once long ago, I attended a writing workshop which gave me a negative impression about Charles Dickens' style that took years to change back again. The presenter said that 21st century authors should shun Dickens' setting descriptions, or skim them only as an example of what no longer works. For since the great man existed long before the advent of the screen, he assumed his readers could intuit next to nothing about his story settings. Therefore he walloped them with slabs of tedious information dumps we don't need.

 I deduced that modern readers, and especially young ones, appreciate racy, pacy writing that scatters setting descriptions so lightly, they're more like fairy dust. Readers should hardly register that they're even falling at all. It's a compliment to readers' good sense, this presenter thought, to assume we can use our own imaginations to sense what a place must look like. I left that session thinking it all sounded very reasonable, and resolved to keep my own settings as brief and light as possible. 

It took re-reading several old classics for this blog to show me what a lot of excellent material we sacrifice with such a ruthless attitude. By sneering at every long, descriptive passage we come across, we are knocking back two great invitations. One is to slow down for the time being to a pleasant, leisurely pace. The frenetic speed at which we are urged to whiz through our days robs that from us. And the other invitation is to indulge our inner five senses in some of the finest works of written art. For I now believe that taking time to enter right into the heart of the setting is akin to gazing at some of the most breathtaking masterpieces on art gallery walls.   

 Here's an invitation right now, for you to join me for a few selected moments from  Dickens' Martin Chuzzlewit. I read a disturbing article recently that in our current era, the average sentence length in fiction is gradually getting shorter to match social media trends. But if anyone can renew our affection for semi-colons, multiple commas and single sentences stretched out for as long as entire paragraphs, Dickens is surely our man. Let's give him a chance, because our attention spans and ability to exercise our minds' eyes are at stake. Here goes. 

MACRO VIEW: The Never-ending Swamp

Background: Two young men have alighted from a paddle steamer to their new home with utter dismay. Martin Chuzzlewit and Mark Tapley expected a thriving new township, but instead, this is what they get. 

'A flat morass, bestrewn with fallen timber; a marsh on which the good growth of the earth seemed to have been wrecked and cast away, that from its decomposing ashes vile and ugly things might rise, where the very trees that took the aspect of huge weeds, begotten of the slime from which they sprung, by the hot sun that burned them up; where fatal maladies seeking whom they might infect came forth at night in misty shapes, and creeping out upon the water hunted them like spectres until day; where even the blessed sun, shining down on festering elements of corruption and disease, became a horror. This was the realm of Hope through which they moved.' 

But hold on, there's more when the boys step outside to gauge what they have to work with.

'Their own land was mere forest. The trees had grown so thick and close that they shouldered one another out of their places, and the weakest, forced into shapes of strange distortion, languished like cripples. The best were stunted from the pressure and the want of room; and high about the stems of all grew long, rank grass, dank weeds and frowsy underwood: not divisible into their separate kinds but tangled all together in a heap; a deep jungle and dark with neither earth nor water at its roots, but putrid matter, formed of the pulpy offal of the two, and of their own corruption.' 

Not a pretty sight, but can't you just picture it?

SEMI-MACRO VIEW: The London Neighbourhood

Background: Mr Pecksniff and his daughters are heading for his favourite boarding house, run by Mrs Todgers, in her rather seamy section of the city. But at each visit, he forgets how difficult it is to navigate his way there. 

'You couldn't walk about Todgers' neighbourhood as you could in any other neighbourhood. You groped your way for an hour through lanes and bye-ways and courtyards and passages; and you never once emerged upon anything that might reasonably be called a street. A kind of resigned distraction came over the stranger as he trod these devious mazes, and giving himself up for lost went in and out and round about, and quietly turned back again when he came to a dead wall or was stopped by an iron railing, and felt that the means of escape might possibly present themselves in their own good time, but that to anticipate them was hopeless. Instances were known of people who being asked to dine at Todgers', had travelled round for a weary time with its very chimney pots in view, and finding it at last impossible of attainment, had gone home again with a gentle melancholy on their spirits, tranquil and uncomplaining. Nobody had ever found Todgers' on a verbal direction, though given within a few minutes walk of it. Cautious emigrants from Scotland or the North of England had been known to reach it safely by impressing a charity boy, town-bred, and bringing him along with them; or by clinging tenaciously to the postman; but these were rare exceptions and only went to prove the rule that Todgers' was in a labyrinth whereof the mystery was known but to a chosen few.' 

There's a few pages more of this. I admit to being initially impatient to move on with the actual plot, then realised that my restlessness made me just such another hapless wanderer, as frustrated with the written description as these characters were in time and space. So I made up my mind to slow down and enjoy the hopeless meandering, and it became a really fun read. 

SEMI-MICRO VIEW: Mrs Gamp's Bedroom

Background: The boozy, chatty hired nurse, Mrs Sarah Gamp, rents a room in the house of Mr Sweedlepipe the barber, and here is what you'll find between her four walls.  

'The bed itself was decorated with a patchwork quilt of great antiquity, and at the upper end upon the side nearest the door hung a scanty curtain of blue check, which prevented the Zephyrs which were abroad in Kingsgate Square from visiting Mrs Gamp's head too roughly. Some rusty gowns and other articles of that lady's wardrobe depended from the posts; and these had so adapted themselves by long usage to her figure, that more than one impatient husband coming in precipitately at about the time of twilight had been for an instant stricken dumb by the supposed discovery that Mrs Gamp had hanged herself.'

'The chest of drawers having been originally made to stand upon the top of another chest, had a dwarfish, elfin look alone; but in regard of its security it had a great advantage of the bandboxes, for as all the handles had been long ago pulled off, it was very difficult to get at its contents. This indeed was only to be done by one or two devices; either by tilting the whole structure forward until all the drawers fell out together, or by opening them singly with knives like oysters.' 

Once again, although nothing to do with the actual story, slowing down for setting offers benefits of its own.

MICRO VIEW: Mrs Betsey Prig's Pocket

Background: Mrs Gamp's fellow nurse, the large and gruff Mrs Prig, is expected for morning tea. Here is what she brings. 

'Mrs Prig, looking steadfastly at her friend, put her hand in her pocket and with an air of surly triumph drew forth either the oldest of lettuces or youngest of cabbages, but at any rate a green vegetable of an expensive nature, and of such magnificent proportions that she was obliged to shut it up like an umbrella before she could pull it out. She also produced a handful of mustard and cress, a trifle of the herb called dandelion, three bunches of radishes, an onion rather larger than an average turnip, three substantial slices of beetroot, and a short prong or antler of celery; the whole of this garden stuff having been publicly exhibited but a short time before as a twopenny salad, and purchased by Mrs Prig on condition that the vendor could get it all into her pocket. Which had been happily accomplished, in High Holborn, to the breathless interest of a Hackney-coach stand. And she laid so little stress on this surprising forethought that she did not even smile, but returning her pocket into its accustomed sphere, merely recommended that these products of nature should be sliced up, for immediate consumption, in plenty of vinegar.' 

So what do you think, having come out the other side? In over 800 pages, Dickens just keeps the scenes rolling, but those I chose represent his skill in highlighting macro and micro views alike. He can paint verbal brush strokes of sweeping panoramas and also home in on tiny details. And having convinced myself to slow down for the duration, I'm keen to continue with the occasional reflective, labyrinthine book, for they offer both rest and stimulation. And few things provide us with both at once.

PS, in case you wonder about the photo up the top, I took it down on the beach at Port Willunga, south of Adelaide. It's the wreck of an old jetty which may have been in its heyday while Dickens still wielded his pen. 

 

'Martin Chuzzlewit' by Charles Dickens

While writing Martin Chuzzlewit - his sixth novel - Dickens declared it 'immeasurably the best of my stories.' He was already famous as the author of The Pickwick Papers and Oliver Twist.

Set partly in America, which Dickens had visited in 1842, the novel includes a searing satire on the United States. Martin Chuzzlewit is the story of two Chuzzlewits, Martin and Jonas, who have inherited the characteristic Chuzzlewit selfishness. It contrasts their diverse fates of moral redemption and worldly success for one, with increasingly desperate crime for the other. This powerful black comedy involves hypocrisy, greed and blackmail, as well as the most famous of Dickens's grotesques, Mrs Gamp.

MY THOUGHTS: 

I was on the look-out for my next Dickens novel, and chose Martin Chuzzlewit because of its claims of comic genius and well-beloved characters. It didn't let me down. 

Old Martin Chuzzlewit is a grouchy and cynical rich man who's convinced that most people in his life are solely after his money. He adopts a young orphan girl named Mary Graham, and tells her outright that although she'll inherit nothing, he'll provide her financial needs for as long as he's alive, in return for her looking after him. This is his orchestration to ensure that it will be in at least one person's best interests to keep him alive. But when his grandson, also named Martin, falls in love with Mary, family harmony gets rocky. It culminates in young Martin leaving home in a huff, to make his own way without his grandfather's help. 

Young Martin claims he's lucky to have dodged the Chuzzlewit traits of stubbornness and selfishness, while his attitude and behaviour prove that he's inherited generous doses of both. Martin has been brought up as an entitled brat, but at 21, he's young enough to change, and we anticipate that this story will rip the scales from his eyes. Indeed, I was thinking early on, 'Hooray, this boy will get character development!' 

He's so full of himself near the start that when his new friend Tom Pinch gives him a generous handout, young Martin reflects what a great guy he must be to have made such a positive impression on Tom! I still find him easy to like, even at this stage. Mary gives Martin credit for trying to be resourceful and independent although he's been stripped of everything, and so should we. He has plenty of get-up-and-go, and although he's self-centered, he isn't cruel and manipulative like the story's villain, his cousin Jonas (or second cousin, if we're splitting hairs). And best of all, unlike this story's shadier characters, he is teachable!

Martin makes an impulsive decision to head across the ocean to seek his fortune in America. He's accompanied by the merry Mark Tapley, a long-term optimist who brushes off all compliments that he's an uplifting guy to have around. Mark believe he's never been put to the test, and is always seeking an opportunity horrendous enough to deserve the praise. Seriously, this guy leaves Pollyanna far behind. Needless to say, America delivers what he's looking for.

It seems Martin Chuzzlewit was a controversial book of its time, as well as being Dickens' only novel with part of the action taking place on foreign soil. (With the exception of the French action in A Tale of Two Cities.) Some Americans resented him for showing them in a really bad light. But considering their current history at his time of writing, I think they provided the sort of story fodder he liked to jump on. He saw a nation that regarded individual freedom so highly they broke away from Britain in an intense war to achieve it, calling the Motherland a despot and tyrant, then without blinking committed the atrocity of keeping slaves. How could a satirist and hater of hypocrisy like Dickens possibly resist? 

I love it when the migrating duo invests in a land package, sight unseen, in the inaptly named town of Eden, then arrive to discover a foetid, pestilential swamp which has killed several people. So while Mark gets the opportunity to put his jollity to the ultimate test, the place becomes a stunning eucatastrophe for Martin, revealing his personal shortcomings in a way nothing else ever has. There is always plenty happening plotwise in the story, but this pause for a reflective payoff between setting and character is my favourite part.

Other characters are brilliantly executed too, such as the pious-speaking Mr Pecksniff, whose audacious hypocrisy has no limits. This tubby fraud aims to come across in a kindly, paternal style similar to Mr Pickwick from The Pickwick Papers, but he's a real wolf in sheep's clothing. For a start, he claims to teach students architecture, but plagiarises their designs and dodges discovery like a pro. 

I think my second favourite part of the story is when archetypal good guy, Tom Pinch, accidentally discovers the true colours of the man he has idolised from boyhood. Understanding the real Pecksniff should be liberating but it's a huge blow for Tom to face the fact that a lifetime of admiration has been entirely misplaced. As the narrator puts it, 'The star of his whole life from boyhood had become in a moment putrid vapour. The man he venerated had never existed. Pecksniff had gone out of the world. Never been in it.' Wow, Tom's experience begs the question, what do we do under such circumstances? Do we consider years of delusion a sad write-off, or somehow manage to weave them into our life review as a valuable lesson learned?  

I find the trajectory of the cruel and heartless villain, Jonas Chuzzlewit, intriguing. His downfall doesn't have to be as rough as he makes it, until he feels the need to keep endlessly covering up his cover-ups. Scarily enough, he reminded me of some of the boys I knew at school. Is a nasty, brutal nature one of destiny's tools? In other words, although it's obvious on the surface he didn't have to make the choices we read, did his vicious streak actually drive him to do it? It all started with greed, of course. 

On the whole, Martin Chuzzlewit was really enjoyable and interesting, but I've now read enough Dickens to sense straight off that it probably won't be in my Top 5. I think I would have liked the threads of young Martin and the villainous Jonas to converge even more than they did. And although I loved young Martin, I was never a fan of old Martin. Just because a guy has money gives him no right to play God with other people's lives, throwing tantrums if they came up with ideas before he does. His autocratic attitude could have easily resulted  in the death of his grandson, who he treats like dirt just to prove a point. That's taking tough love to a sick extreme! I can't imagine how Mary could have stayed devoted to the old codger, since he started playing messy games with the guy she loved. (Whenever old Martin hobbles onto a scene, I imagine him looking like Mr Burns from The Simpsons, and wonder if it's just me, for Dickens doesn't describe him as such.)

Romance is quite low key. I like the Mary/Martin relationship, but we don't really get enough of it. Instead, we get the super-sentimental John Westlock/Ruth Pinch match up, which verges on sickly sweet, plus the two Pecksniff girls vying with each other for that horrible Jonas Chuzzlewit, which is just off this planet. I mean, of all the men out there... why?!!  

But hey, it's given me lots of food for thought. 

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'Clover' by Susan Coolidge

NOTE: At one time, I wouldn't have reviewed such an old volume on my blog, since it would have been difficult for the average reader to get their hands on. But in recent years, great strides have been made by generous sites such as Project Gutenberg and even Amazon to bring these old treasures back to life as free e-books. So if you're inspired to carry on with these charming tales of Katy Carr's siblings, they are easy to find and cost nothing!

MY THOUGHTS:

Some readers think this series is a trilogy that ends with What Katy Did Next, but in fact there are two more to round it off. I always knew about Clover, because there was an old copy owned by my mother in the bookshelf when I was little. But I remembered few details from my last read, which was way back in my childhood, and enjoyed this re-read more than ever. It's a simple story, but quite compelling.

It's refreshing to have the attention turned to another member of the Carr family, especially when it's loyal and generous Clover, who always rejoiced in Katy's good fortune without a twinge of envy, even when that meant missing out on long trips to Europe herself. After Katy's startlingly simple wedding, Clover's story begins. The youngest Carr sibling, Phil, takes on a significant role too.

Seventeen-year-old Phil has a worrisome cough which bothers his dad, because tuberculosis is rife in their time and place. So Dr Carr decides to send Phil to St. Helen's, a small town in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, to regain his health. And because he can't pack up his medical practice and go too, Clover is appointed as Phil's guardian. Settling down in a faraway state which has a uncivilised reputation and trying to convince a stubborn teenage male to take it easy are equally daunting prospects for Clover, but she resolves to tackle them by taking one day at a time.

Then there's the Mrs Watson factor. Anxious Dr Carr unintentionally complicates things further by connecting the pair of them with an elderly lady who he hopes may be able to lend a wise helping hand from time to time. But Mrs Watson turns out to be a helpless, talkative airhead who makes Clover's job far harder. She provides some excellent comic relief, and making Clover exasperated with her meddling father is just the start.  

Guess who else has settled down on a nearby ranch sixteen miles out of town? It's cheeky, henpecked cousin Clarence Page from What Katy Did at School, who has now grown up and become very good looking. He's living with a British friend, the equally attractive but more refined Geoff Templestowe. And there's also a third guy in the wings named Thurber Wade, a rich young local. These are regarded by new friends as three 'Clover leaves', any of whom she might pluck if she pleases.

I loved the descriptions of the setting and environment. Colorado has never been on my bucket list of places to visit before, but now I want to go there to experience that bracing, restorative air, stunning mountain views and bright flowers. One of the book's main themes is how travellers from the eastern states are usually overwhelmed by the stunning beauty, and surprised by the mod cons in the cities and towns, as they all expect something wild and untamed. Clover and Phil are no exception. It's always a pleasure for me to slow down with a pastoral novel, so I'd rate this book high just for its beautiful sense of place.

There are spoilers below this line, as I want to discuss Clover's three romantic options. So if you want to be totally surprised as the story unfolds, read no further.  

Poor Clarence shows up really well. In a way, it would have been sweet if Clover had fallen for the scrappy young cousin who took her good influence on board so long ago, but Susan Coolidge had other plans for both of them. I'm glad in retrospect that his proposal was rejected, because this gives Clarence's character a chance to shine. He leaves Laurie from Little Women far behind when it comes to taking no for an answer with dignity and thoughtfulness. I liked this boy all along, and respect him even more now. I applaud Clarence's mature decision to make no ripples for the new lovebirds Clover and Geoff, because they're his closest friends, and jeopardising his relationships with them would be plain stupid. Way to go, Clarence!

Thurber Wade is not a main character, and seems to serve three purposes. He brings the feelings of the other two rivals to the surface. He enables some lovely expeditions to explore more of the beauty of Colorado, which the other two guys simply couldn't afford. And he makes the 3-leaf Clover analogy possible. But Thurber Wade never had a chance. We all knew that.

No surprise really, it's Geoff Templestowe! Coolidge has given us a delicately written romance here, but it was always clear that he was going to be the guy. And on the whole, Clover's attraction to him is based on his character rather than his looks, which is what we'd expect from her. One of my favourite reflections of hers is this. 'I wonder what makes him so different from other people. He never says fine flourishing things like Thurber Wade, or abrupt, rather rude things like Clarence, or inconsiderate things like Phil, or satirical, funny things like the doctor. But he's always doing something kind.' 

Well, potential spouses do have a way of being on their best behaviour. And they usually follow up by letting a few annoyances slip through the cracks once they become actual husbands. 

We'll see what comes to light in In the High Valley.

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'The Murder of Roger Ackroyd' by Agatha Christie

Considered to be one of Agatha Christie's most controversial mysteries, The Murder Of Roger Ackroyd breaks the rules of traditional mystery.

The peaceful English village of King’s Abbot is stunned. The widow Ferrars dies from an overdose of veronal. Not twenty-four hours later, Roger Ackroyd—the man she had planned to marry—is murdered. It is a baffling case involving blackmail and death, that taxes Hercule Poirot’s “grey cells” before he reaches one of the most startling conclusions of his career.

MY THOUGHTS:  

My mum was always a great fan of the queen of crime when I was little, and collected many of her books. I never read them all but do appreciate knowing they're always on hand at Mum's place, just in case I want to grab hold of one for a vintage mystery fix if I feel like it. I've seen this crime classic mentioned frequently lately, as one of Christie's most brilliant and celebrated for its impeccable execution. One site even said that if you're only ever going to read one Agatha Christie, let this be the one. I promise I went into it with no idea what to expect, to see if it would blow me away as it has many others.

It was first published in 1926, and set in a tiny village named King's Abbot. The story's narrator is Dr James Sheppard, the friendly local GP. His patient Mrs Ferrars has just committed suicide by taking a lethal overdose of tablets. It turns out a ruthless blackmailer who knew she'd poisoned her husband has been extorting money from her ever since his death, and she's finally had enough of the stress. Mrs Ferrars leaves a letter to her fiance, Roger Ackroyd, revealing the identity of her blackmailer, but he's murdered in his study before he finishes reading the letter. Ackroyd is stabbed in the neck from behind with a sharp, ornamental weapon from one of his own drawers. 

The weird thing is that the killer makes a late night phone call to let the doctor know that another patient of his has bitten the dust. One of the biggest questions in this story is why on earth the anonymous murderer would preempt discovery, rather than wait for it to unfold naturally the following morning. It's so unusual, detective Hercule Poirot is certain that once the answer comes to light, they'll have their killer. 

The suspect who most evidence seems to indicate is Ackroyd's handsome stepson, Captain Ralph Paton, who disappeared after the murder. But almost everyone present beneath Ackroyd's roof that evening have personal secrets of their own, mostly fueled by being short of money. There's his widowed sister-in-law, Mrs Cecil Ackroyd, and her beautiful daughter Flora, along with a game shooter named Hector Blunt, and Ackroyd's vigilant personal secretary, Geoffrey Raymond. And the staff members include Parker the butler, Mrs Russell the housekeeper, and Ursula Bourne the parlour maid. Everyone is hiding something which they fear may cast them in a suspicious light. 

There are some interesting musings, including Poirot's theory about women's intuition (females take heaps of detail on board in their subconscious minds, and later assume there's something psychic about it) and the mind of a blackmailer (it's easy for any ordinary man to acquire a substantial income by doing nothing more difficult than keeping quiet about something). His sidekick Dr Sheppard comments that as each new revelation comes to light, the whole case is like the shake of a kaleidoscope. The thing changes its aspect entirely. 

I think the big revelation is rightfully considered controversial. Some readers think Dame Agatha was playing silly games with us, while others believe she was boldly treading ground traversed by no mystery author before her. I'll say no more, except that the murderer was so cocksure they got away with it, I'm glad Poirot was called on the case to prove them wrong! 

Did I figure it out myself? No, in all honesty, but nor was I totally floored by the announcement. 

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